#poeben

1

Poe sees Ben the first time when he is twelve and Ben is nine. Ben is at the side of Master Skywalker, shoulders hunched , messy black hair, face too pale to be healthy. He lacks the grace of his uncle and has none of his charisma. He speaks little and when he does, it is with strange intonation, as if he has to force each word from his lips. There’s something about him that Poe has never seen. Not just the quiet or the way he avoids eye contact, it’s something more, something other, and Poe, he wants to know. Master Skywalker’s visits rarely exceed a couple of days, but in those days that he does, Poe watches Ben. It’s new to Poe, he is not used to staying behind to observe. Action drives him, but with Ben...something pulls him back. It’s like staring at the rippleless water of a lake from a jetty, before jumping in.

The old library seems to be one of Ben’s favourite places when he isn’t training with Master Skywalker. Poe suspects it’s not for reading and rather for the privacy the dusty rooms offer. The wing that Ben chooses is cloaked in silence, and even those who venture there quickly leave when they notice Ben. And always: stacks of papyrus shoved to the end of the table, ancient texts marked with fading Jadi symbols, and closer to Ben, a holopad with calligraphy letters. Ben tries to copy them in his own splotchy strokes of ink, but it’s easy to see that he will never succeed. Yet, time and time again, Poe finds Ben practising until one day Ben swipes the desk clean, shattering the ink jar, paper and papyrus to the floor. Approaching steps—probably the librarian—startle Poe into action. He gets up that moment and wordlessly helps pick up the shards of glass. He smiles and Ben looks at him for the very first time. His eyes glint wet and black and within them something stirs that almost frightens Poe. He grabs Ben’s arm, leading him between the shelves to hide from the librarian.

It starts quietly between them, like a secret. Some unspoken thing, not kindness, but perhaps curiosity. They are strangers to each other. Perhaps they will never be more. But it doesn’t matter. From that day in the library onwards they keep coming back. Glances at first, a half-smile, a stolen touch. Then hours that amass, and Ben is quick to charge at him when they spar, and slow to speak when they merely sit and watch from behind trees or the great columns of the Academy. Ben doesn’t talk about his parents, only flinches when Poe calls them war heroes, like everyone calls them.

“They’re never there,” Ben says.

Poe stays quiet. He feels stupid, like he’s hurt Ben. He looks down.  

“I didn’t really know my parents… My grandfather raised me,” Poe says quietly.

“Grandfather,” Ben echoes.

“Yeah.” Poe swats his arm and stands. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Ben looks up at him a moment, long lashes fanning and casting streaks of shadow over his cheeks. His uneven features look like porcelain, not pretty like the boys in pictures, but like some mural in an old temple, half faded, half forgotten, unknowable.

“Okay,” Ben says.

2

Sometimes they wander deep into the jungle of Yavin 4, where flies sting them and the undergrowth scratches their legs. It does not deter them from going on until at last they hear the rush of the stream, Poe’s secret river. He’s called it Shara, after his mom. He likes to spend his few free hours here, listening to the water, staring up at the pieces of sky visible through the trees, where one day he will fly an x-wing too, just like her. When Ben accompanies him, they build spaceships from twigs and leaves or spar, and Ben wins just as often as Poe. Ben gets stronger every year.

At thirteen, Ben has grown taller than Poe, but he still walks hunched as if he doesn’t want to be looked at or talked about, and people do talk. How Ben has his mother’s eyes, but his grandfather’s soul. How his abilities far surpass those of his peers, and how too often rage seems to eclipse him when he trains with his uncle. They say, he’ll be out of control soon, that he will snap. Poe hates those rumours. Ben isn’t like that.

3

They’re by the stream again, carving lines into the wet dark earth with two thick branches, reminding Poe of Ben’s failed attempt at calligraphy. Instead of a quill, Ben now keeps the hilt of a lightsaber on his belt.

“I’m joining the fleet,” Poe says and looks up from his own artless scribble. Ben doesn’t. He says nothing, just slashes at the earth, then throws the branch to the side and sits down by the river. Poe has thought long about how to tell Ben, has kept it to himself for three months and it has festered inside him. He’s wanted to go ever since he can remember, has trained for it allof  his life. There is no feeling like being up in the air, the adrenaline high of looking down between the wings, gyre of motor beneath him like a beast at his beck and call. His mother’s legacy, and more. His freedom.

Thunder rumbles low above them and the sky dims. There’s been tension in the air all day, sudden winds, the scent of ozone, the nameless pressure preceding a storm. Poe joins Ben, sits closer than he usually does. Lightning cracks over the sky and for a moment douses all in radiance. Ben raises his head, eyes wide. He’s not a child anymore, but Poe knows there’s always been a part of Ben that was frightened by a storm. He’s not sure why, not sure if it’s fear at all, or if it’s... kinship. Thunder again. Louder this time, but still no rain. Ben inhales sharply and Poe grabs Ben’s shoulder. There’s something about him that makes Poe want to protect him.

“Ben…”

“You know I hate that name.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Ben gives him a petulant look and Poe has to grin.

“You afraid, Solo?”

“I hate that name, too,” Ben snaps but doesn’t slap Poe’s hand away. He pouts with those full lips of his. Poe slides closer.

“Okay, buddy. What don’t you hate?”

Silence for a moment. Ben just stares at him and Poe could swear that his cheeks and ears redden.

“Y—”

Lightning strikes and the thunder that follows is as loud as the bombs that fell when Poe was a child. This time they both wince. Ben averts his face. Poe swallows drily and takes a deep breath, tries to think of a clear sky above clouds.

“Hey. Hey it’s okay. You’re safe.” Poe repeats the words that his grandpa told him whenever he’d wake up crying in the night.

Ben stands abruptly. “I know I’m safe.” All his muscles are drawn tight and Poe watches his feet shift as if getting ready to fight. Poe stands up, too, slowly, and slides a hand to the small of Ben’s back, leading him towards the mouth of the cave to their left. Inside, burnt twigs and ash mingle midst a circle of stones. The traces of their campfire from two days ago.

“Wait here. I’ll get some new tinder before the rain starts, ok?”

“Ok.”

Poe smiles and heads outside. He strides away from the stream, looking for any dry grass he can find. He slides his mom’s knife from his pocket and cuts off thin slices of bark, then returns to the cave. Lightning sharpens all shadows as it flares. Ben has gone further inside, but here, the thunder echoes even louder. It’s deafening. The storm must be right above them. Then the hail starts. It’s slow at first, but quickens with every heartbeat until chunks of ice shatter down. Poe gathers the rest of their firewood and carries it to where Ben is cowering.

“I hate—the noise—” Ben chokes out. “And the light is so—”

Poe nods. “Yeah. Yeah the noise.” He arranges the tinder and wood and kindles it with the matches he keeps in his jacket pocket. He cups his hands and shields the spark as best as he can, gently blowing it into a flame.

“Thanks,” Ben says. His voice is barely there. He looks even paler now, almost haunted.

Poe reaches into the jacket pocket again and fishes out a dented, self-rolled cigarette. His last. He cocks an eyebrow at Ben and grins.

“You smoke?”

Uncertainty flickers over Ben’s face. “Yes.”

Poe bends forward and lights the fag over the fire, inhales and passes it over to Ben.

“Here.”

Ben takes a deep drag and his eyes bulge as he coughs out smoke.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Ben croaks.

Poe claps him on the back grinning and is a little proud. The fire crackles and the shattering of hail turns into the prattle of rain. The thunder quiets, the lightning dims. They share the cigarette. Their shoulders brush and it’s not half bad, Ben warm beside him. Ben takes the last drag of the cigarette and turns towards him. His eyes are red-rimmed, from the smoke or from lack of sleep, or both, and he’s biting his lips and then swallows in that particular way that has the hairs on Poe’s back stand up. Poe can never avert his gaze. He leans in, and twirls a lock of Ben’s black hair between thumb and index finger. Ben doesn’t move away.

“Would it be ok to kiss you?” Poe murmurs.

“Y— Yeah. Yeah.”

Poe slides a hand to the nape of Ben’s neck and draws him forward. Just the ghost of touch as their lips brush. Fingers curl into Poe’s sleeves and Ben pulls him closer. Heat rises within Poe and he licks over Ben’s mouth, slipping his tongue inside, pressing it against Ben’s. Electricity crackles along Poe’s spine. Ben’s lips are soft and sweet and urgent in how they move against his own. Poe shoves him until Ben’s back hits the cave wall. Ben is pliant beneath his hands. God, he’s wanted to do this for so long. Fumbling hands, hot breaths.

“Can I—can I touch you?” Ben looks up, lidded eyes, kiss stained mouth.

“Absolutely.”

Fingers slide over Poe’s belt and he can feel Ben’s hands trembling. Poe kisses his mouth, his neck and shoves one hand under Ben’s shirt.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes.” The lie is obvious.

Poe bites at Ben’s collarbone as he rubs his thumb over Ben’s left nipple. A moan falls from Ben’s lips, turns into a keening whine as his body arches towards Poe. They skid to the ground, hands still on each other. The fire bristles next to them, amber-bright, casting heat onto their faces. Ben is half in the shadow, half aglow by the flames, but his eyes are still black. A shudder runs down Poe’s back. He traces his knuckles over Ben’s cheek.

“Ben…”

“I hate that name.”

Perhaps he is right, perhaps that name is not for him.

“What should I call you?”

But Ben answers nothing. The silence stretches between them, desert-vast, unbearable. No word Poe might utter could pierce it, he knows this like the rising moisture in the air, thick, drowning each breath, remnants of storm. So he kisses Ben again, and Ben kisses back, pleading mouth ripe, begging with whine and whispers of more and please. And Poe wants all of him. This might be his last chance before the fleet and before the skies will open for him and who knows if he will ever come back or if Ben will still be there if he does. He’s kissing Ben’s neck and has his hands on Ben’s belt. He halts. Ben has averted his face. He lies limp, hair falling over his eyes, tremble to his jaw. Cold shivers through Poe and his heart sinks.

“Hey,” he murmurs and makes to stroke a strand of hair from Ben’s cheek. Ben clasps his wrist.

“Don’t.” His voice is choked, fearful.

“Did I do something you didn’t like?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Ben sits up, back turned to him. Poe moves closer, carefully wraps his arms around Ben’s wide shoulders. He holds Ben until the flames dwindle and darkness descends. In it, Ben shifts and tenses. He moves from Poe’s embrace and tilts his head as if listening to something in the air, suspended in the lengthening shadows. His features harden. Cold air seeps in from the mouth of the cave and with it, the scent of wet earth and rot. It’s visceral like carnage or blood drool slipping from the maw of a beast.

“We should go,” Poe says, heart suddenly thumping.

Ben stares out into the blackness. He walks without another word, steps heavy, and in his mien not a trace of the fear, the instinct, that now claps around Poe’s heart.

“Wait.”

Ben doesn’t. Poe speeds up his steps until he reaches him, already outside, and draws him back. Without thought Poe slaps him across the face. Ben stumbles back, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” The realisation of what he’s just done sears through Poe and he grabs Ben by the arms, sliding his hands to Ben’s neck. A quick kiss to his mouth, then another. Lips open, teeth clash, and Ben’s hands feel hot where they grab at Poe, the air chilly on his skin. He shoves Ben against a tree, hollow wheeze as Ben’s back meets bark. Then Poe is between his legs, hand pushing under his trousers and Ben groans, wonton, yanking him closer. He jams his hips hard against the inside of Ben’s thigh, and without thinking bends to bite at Ben’s neck. A curse falls from Ben’s mouth as Poe draws the skin between his teeth, untender, while his fingers wrap around Ben’s dick.

“Please,” Ben rasps. “Please, please.”

A surge of heat blinds all of Poe’s thoughts. There’s only Ben and how good he feels, how soft and sweet and dirty. He wants to make him come, wants it with an intensity that drives him to move his hand up and down, fast and hard, slicked only with Ben’s arousal. He can feel his own climax nearing as he drives between the crevice of Ben’s thighs with every thrust of his hip.

A shattered moan. Wet warmth spurts over Poe’s hand. He looks into Ben’s face and comes, too.

They lean against each other, breaths ragged, heat bleeding from them into the dark. Poe counts their breaths, aligns his own with Ben’s. The stickiness between his legs and on his hand dries and the chills of the night chase goosebumps over their skin. They untangle clumsily. He tries to steal a glance from Ben, but Ben keeps his eyes to the ground. Cloth shuffles, they right their clothes.

Quiet between them. They walk on.

They stumble through the undergrowth, scratching their legs and arms, guided only by the small flashlight Poe always has with him. The jungle feels almost alive around them, noise of breaking branches, shuffling leaves, bird calls and distant howls. They’re not allowed to stay out this long, and Poe finally understands why. Shadows twist, convulse around them like grimaces turning into strange shapes. Adrenaline eats what there is left of satisfaction and Poe cannot but exhale in relief once they reach the forest border. The lantern-illuminated path that leads back to the Academy comes into view and Poe turns off his flashlight. He glances at Ben. The lantern glow only grazes his hair, leaving his face to twilight. A slow inhale.

“When will you leave?” Ben asks. He does not look up.

Poe studies his face, but he can discern nothing.

“The training for the NRDF starts in a week.”

4

They have not spoken of it, but it is there between them. It won’t happen again, of that Poe is sure. A strangeness has grown between them since that night. Ben does not look him in the eye, shies from his touch, lips tight, fists tighter. Perhaps he’s right to. What they’ve done has changed them and who they are to each other, it has made them more than friends and less than lovers, for whatever that means. And he’s leaving. He’s never known it with more clarity than when Ben looks at him. Part of him wants to stay, wants to cherish what time they might claw from the routine of their trainings while Ben stays on Yavin 4, no matter if what they started in the jungle continues or not. He wants to be there for Ben, tell him that he’s not alone, that all the people are wrong to whisper about him, that he is brave and strong and so much better than what they say. But the skies call. He’s heard their song all his life, has it singing in his veins at night and day. To find out more about his mother, to become a pilot of the New Republic Defense Fleet, to serve and help and be weightless above the clouds. And Ben knows it too. Poe cannot stay. And that is that.

The last day draws near. Dusk bruises the horizon and daylight’s fading fast. He finds Ben in the library. Books lie scattered over his desk, but none of the symbols on them look familiar. Ben is writing in strange letters, arcane, on paper like he used to, but it’s not calligraphy that he scratches with strokes of blotchy ink. Poe stands by the door and stares. Something keeps him from coming closer. It’s as if there’s something around Ben, another presence, unseen, intangible, but there. A shape within the gloaming. Poe swallows hard, tries to command himself to move, to go to him, but he can’t, won’t and mustn’t. He might attract the attention of what lurks behind Ben. His breath comes short and sweat starts to bead on his forehead and palms.

Ben looks up. Their eyes meet.

Poe makes to step towards him despite the dread that grips him, but Ben’s stare halts him. No, not Ben. He was right. That name does not fit, never has. The boy at the table stands up. Poe’s heart hits like a drum, deafening as he fights the instinct to flee. The boy rounds the table slowly, and he does not look like thirteen, doesn’t look like a boy at all, even though Poe knows that’s what he is. There’s something in the way he moves, forceful, heavy, graceless. Like some awakened thing, like the stench that night in the jungle, of rot and blood, raw meat. Poe swallows hard. Everything inside him screams for him to get away, but he thinks of the way the boy flinched when thunder struck and how warm he felt. How he wanted to protect him. The boy stops right before him. They’re the same height even though he’s three years older.

“Good bye,” the boy says it as if he has to claw the words from deep within his throat. Then he shoves past Poe, marching him back a step in the process. Poe stands frozen for a heartbeat before he turns around to watch the boy go. It’s the last time he sees him in a very long while.

5

When Poe finally joins the fleet it’s like taking a breath for the first time after having been underwater for too long. The sky opens before him, but more than that, among the older pilots are a few who served with his mother and they have stories to tell. He finds more than comrades, he finds friends, and no matter how hard the training is and how exhausted he is every evening, he would not change it. There seems to be no limit to what he might do or where he might go. He hopes his mother would be proud.

Poe does wonder about the boy, hopes he’s found...something. Peace or rest or at least refuge from that shadow upon him.